The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

fucked up in every conceivable direction. Why did they still believe in him? Why did they still keep him around?
    It didn’t matter why, only that they did.
    Dougie took a deep breath, opened the car door, put one foot in front of the other.
    His fate was waiting. The least he could do was walk to it like a man.

Just like before, the front door was unlocked. Except this time, Dougie didn’t have Mat to hide behind. And he knew what was waiting on the other side.
    His captor. His torturer. His master.
    His lover.
    The stereo was on in the living room, soft classical music drifting into the front foyer, nearly too quiet to hear. It felt all at once like the soundtrack to a fated love story and to a slasher film, and Dougie swallowed down his dread and followed the notes. Didn’t even have to force his feet to move; they went on their own, as trapped by the sheer inevitability of Nikolai as the rest of him was.
    He found the man at ease on the huge antique armchair near the fireplace in the massive living room, a space where Dougie had spent many happy hours curled at Nikolai’s feet or draped over his lap, reading to him or just keeping him company while he watched old movies. Now, Nikolai was sitting like a king in his throne, one side of his face cast into sharp shadows and angles by the light of the fire. In front of him now, Dougie didn’t even feel like a man. He didn’t realize he’d fallen to his knees, hadn’t meant to, but here he was, looking up at Nikolai from the floor.
    “Hello, boy. Back from your little excursion?” His face revealed nothing. Not anger, not happiness, not frustration . . . nothing. His eyes glittered dark in the firelight.
    Dougie swallowed. Swallowed again. The fire had sapped every drop of moisture from the room, from his body. He didn’t know what to say here. Didn’t know how to react because he didn’t know how Nikolai was reacting, and if there was one thing he knew for certain in all this clusterfuckery, it was that his fate was in Nikolai’s hands.
    Best not to keep him waiting, then. He opened his mouth, and “Yes, sir” came out. Not “Yes, Master” like he realized he should’ve said. Like he would’ve said yesterday without hesitation or thought—with pride, even. With love.
    Fuck Mat. Fuck him and his fucking stupid gallant stupid plan.
    “Is that all you have to say?”
    “I . . .” No, he had more to say, so much more to say, but it was dangerous, all of it, and Nikolai fucking terrified him now. “You want me to say I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, his damn mouth working on its own again, and he clapped his hands over it, mortified. He was in enough fucking trouble already, thank you very much.
    Yet Nikolai’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. He lifted one hand from its resting place on his thigh in a little I-can’t-quite-even-be-bothered-to-shrug sort of way, and said, “I want you to tell me the truth.”
    “I wish I’d never left.” There, that was easy. A truth Nikolai would like. So why was he still fucking talking? “I wish we’d gotten away. I wish you hadn’t put us together in the first place.” He sniffed, broke position to swipe at his nose, and Jesus, when had he gotten into position? “I told you I was fragile!” he shouted, and he hadn’t meant to do that , either. “I’m broken now! You broke me. Mat broke me. I see now. I remember . I don’t . . . I don’t want to be what you made me again.” And yet he laid his hands palm-up on his thighs, squared his shoulders. The good little pet. “I hate it. I hate you.”
    “Oh my sweet, stupid boy.” Nikolai stood, and he was towering over Dougie, elevated from king to god, and then he dropped to one knee, just a man again somehow. He took Dougie’s chin in his hand and laid a soft kiss on his lips, and Dougie wanted to tear away, to bite him, to spit into his mouth, but he was too afraid and what good would it do him anyway? “I’m so happy you’re home.”
    No. Be mad at me. Be furious . I just told you to go fuck yourself, I just told you I hated you and hated me and hated what you’ve done to me. Don’t love me, you fuck. Don’t. Don’t.
    “I know this wasn’t your idea, Douglas. You were just doing what I taught you to do, what you were meant to do: submitting to another man. But your brother isn’t a man, even though he styles himself as one. He’s a slave , Douglas.”
    Yes. And so am I. Thinking anything else was vapor and air.